


Just a Rat in a Cage

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 08:55:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16446734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: Prompt: Shoot prompt! Flashback to kid Root. Her mother was NOT a good person. Super abusive. Main thing is though, when Root "misbehaves"(dumb, petty reasons) her mother throws her into a dog cage to "teach her a lesson". Gives Root an intense fear of cages. Now back to the present before the team trusted her. Again she was back in a cage. Root struggles to deal with her fear and thinking that she's the reason she was caged. maybe her mom was in the right. Cue Shaw noticing and helping.





	Just a Rat in a Cage

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: as the prompt says, Root’s mother in this prompt is abusive, and I advise against reading. If you’re unsure whether to or not, it would most likely be for the best to be safe over sorry. For those reading, I will list what is involved:
> 
> \- Physical contact includes being grabbed by the hair and dragged through a room. 
> 
> \- Verbal is the majority of the abuse present. Swearing, and demeaning in nature.
> 
> \- claustrophobia is described through fear of the cage. Some self harm present as a result of trying to escape the cage, including bloodied hands, lost voice. In present day, results in angry out-lashing, scraped knuckles, and per the request of the prompt, self-blame.
> 
> \- The first section of this prompt is a flashback to kid Root, per prompt request. Last two sections are modern day. In modern day, only mentions of the abuse are hints of flashbacks and self-blame
> 
> I’m not sure if there is any other way to post this to warn against reading if this will have a negative effect for anyone, so please feel free to let me know of any ways to tag this or share this that I did not do. Please please please talk to me if you need to, especially if something in this fic is something that either needs better warning or should be excluded.

_Root stands at the center of a cluttered room, surrounded by couch cushions fluffed with a coat of dust and the ever present, musty smell that wafts from the vents as they cough to life. She looks down, dirty blonde hair falling before her ears and dropping into her peripheral vision as she gazes intently at her bare feet. Small, delicate toes of a seven year old covered in sea-blue glass. While she stands, frozen, she can almost imagine the shards like ocean waves greeting the sandy carpet, and she is far away. She could stay on the beach forever; never go home._

_"What the hell is this?" the squawk of a vicious seagull shatters Root's fantasy, and she is pulled forcefully back into the small Texan apartment. Her mother saunters over with slender shoulders held back intimidatingly, fire lapping in her brown eyes. Root refuses to look up. "I asked you a question," her mother spits, stopping before Root and leaning forward. Root can feel her mother's furious breath hot on her scalp, Root's fingers starting to tremble as she grips the hem of her shirt for security. She opens her mouth, lips knocking against each other as her teeth begin to chatter._

_"I just, I wanted to get more water for- for the fl- for the flowers," Root mumbles out, barely audible. She focuses her eyes on the glass, willing the ocean to come back to her, but it's useless. The sea is miles away, and there's no escaping this place. "An- and I dropped the- the vase."_

_In an instant, Root feels her mother's fingers snag a fistful of her hair, and in the next moment her face is wrenched skyward, tears pricking the corner of her eyes in pain. She holds back an agonized grimace, focusing in on her mother's contemptuous sneer and murderous gaze. Scared brown eyes meeting furious twins._

_"What did I tell you 'bout stutterin'," her mother growls, yanking Root's hair back harder, and she releases a sharp yelp. "Stutterin' and mumblin' and screwin’ up. You're no better than a dog, Samantha, and you know where dogs go?"_

_Root whimpers, eyes reflecting the metallic bars awaiting her in the other room. "No, please," she whispers, but she can already feel her mother moving, hand yanking Root forward._

_The glass crackles beneath her toes, sharp edges digging into the soft flesh of her feet, and she closes her eyes tight. She keeps them shut, not wanting to look where they're headed, but knowing each step by heart. The doorway with the squeaky floorboard into the kitchen. One night she'd snuck out of her room for a glass of water, stepped on it, and was sent to the cage. Past the disintegrating kitchen chairs that would collapse with one breath too heavy. Root didn't mean to wobble the leg that far, but her mother would never let her forget it. The creak of the closet door pries Root's small, tear streaked eyes open, and there, looming in the darkness like a monster waiting to swallow her whole, is the cage._

_The cage, with wiry metal walls ready to engulf her and the faint traces of dried blood in the corners where she'd tried too many times to escape. The cage, so snug that her knees are tucked into her jaw, and the harsh metal pushes into her shoulders like a brand, and her lungs are so cramped that she can sparsely breathe. She remembers the hours crying to be let out, and how the longer she yelled the longer she remained. She remembers the defeat that began to crawl over her, leaving the fear to seep out through silent whimpers, where her fingers stung from gashes not yet healed._

_With a jerky flick, Root's mother throws her into the dog crate, closing it with a padlock before slamming the closet door shut. Instantly, Root's breath comes in quick, shallow bursts, and her tiny fingers curl around the coldness of the thin bars as the walls close in around her, their dark hands clutching her neck and suffocating her. Grip tightening, nails digging into her palms, sweat breaking and throat closing. The sound of blood rushing through her ears louder than Niagara Falls, and then a burning that wells deep from the pit of her stomach to her mouth as she realizes she's screaming, cage rattling as she shakes and warm tears rushing down her cheeks. Fingers splitting. Darkness devastating._

Root darts into a sitting position from the couch she'd been sleeping on, eyes wide and wild as she takes in her surroundings. A nice, open layout apartment with windows that show an endless view of New York City. Open space for miles with no cages in sight. Root shakes her head free of the dream— not the first, and certainly not the last. No matter how long and how far she ran, Root never seemed able to escape those clinging pieces of her past. Every time she went to rest, they caught up to her, leaving her no choice but to flee again.

She can still feel the razor sharp slash of her mother's tongue, and the disgust with which her name was spat still rings nauseatingly in her ears.  _'You're no better than a dog, Samantha- Samantha- Samantha—'_ it plays like a skipping record, and Root closes her eyes tight, willing it out.

_My name is Root._

**_______\ If Your Number's Up /_______**

"You lied to me," Root spits, drawing her gun and aiming at Harold Finch's chest. Years, she'd spent years wondering if there was a greater power out there, and she'd finally found proof of it. Finch— this icy-eyed man with a limp and ever present sneer— was her only key to seeing it.  _Seeing Her._  But in the end, after all she'd done to get to this exact spot, the Machine was missing.  _God is missing._  "I believed you," Root continues, voice quivering as tears begin to streak her cheeks. She'd wanted nothing more than to set the Machine free. A kindred spirit— locked away unjustly, crippled and damaged— finally something Root could relate to. Not someone, she'd never been one to find common ground with people, but  _something_. Some artificial intelligence she could speak to, she could agree with— she could understand and be understood. _I just wanted to set Her free_ , Root thinks to herself, biting her lip as she forces her gun to stay trained at Harold. "I believed in you."

And she had. Surely, the creator of a god would have no reason to lie? Not about this. Yet here they stand in the middle of an empty warehouse, where God was supposed to be.

Something like sympathy wells in Harold's startlingly blue eyes, their sincerity magnified by the sad glint of his glasses. His brow pulls together— almost apologetically.

"Ms. Groves-"

Rage swirls in her stomach at the name, and a fury ravages her eyes. T _hat's not my name,_ she fumes to herself, body quaking with anger. The broken record of her mother,  Ms. Groves, repeating,  _'Samantha- Samantha- Samantha—'_

"My name is Root." There is a passion in her voice like no other, all the years of darkness trapped within released through her eyes and her mouth and the trigger of the gun. She pulls.

_POP!_

Before she's even had the chance to shoot, a bullet tears greedily into her shoulder, ripping away her flesh as her eyes widen in pain. Tears streaming and agony too great for words, Root drops with a choking gasp to the floor. The cold, hard concrete greets her knees roughly, yet she doesn't notice a thing. All around her, people become blurs and voices become garbled sounds. Someone yanks the gun from her hand, and before she knows it her hands are zip tied behind her back. She doesn't even register the pain. Everything is numb.

What could have been seconds, minutes, or lifetimes later, Root is hoisted to her feet and escorted out.  _Why?_  She's unsure.  _Where?_  No clue. But suddenly, none of that seems to matter. With her tears dried on her face and her lips pressed firmly together, she acts as the walking dead. She says nothing as she is shoved into the back of a black SUV with Finch, his worker monkey John Reese, and their dangerous accomplice, Sameen Shaw.

Shaw takes a seat to Root's right, handgun poised directly at Root and eyes unbelievably cold. Root doesn't care. All confidence— all ego and all hope— gone. Broken. Dead.

The only thing that draws Root back to consciousness is the sharp sting of antiseptic being roughly blotted against the open wound. A flesh wound, she's sure, but it doesn't make the pain lessen. And the more Root returns to the world, the more she begins to take in once more.

"What are we gonna do with her, Finch?" Reese asks in a low voice from the driver's seat.

"We'll keep her with us," Harold responds, earning himself a skeptical look.

"She tried to kill you."

Harold sighs.

"If we leave her on the streets, they will surely kill her. Or she'll be back to try this again. Look, there's a space in the library where she can stay for now." A silence falls between them, and Root turns her gaze silently to Shaw, realizing that not only has she placed the weapon back in her waistband, but she's already slid Root's jacket down her shoulder and is applying the dressings. Her eyes scan Shaw's face, taking in the contours of her features from her pursed lips and brows narrowed in concentration. She focuses on Shaw's fingers as they dance against her skin, and tries to forget the pulsing pain that resides just beyond her touch.

Shaw's eyes flick up to Root's, their cold brown coloring telling Root, point blank, she'd been the one to shoot Root.  _I shot you, and I don't feel sorry about it_ , they say in an even tone. Not menacing, but honest enough to alleviate some of Root's unbearable tension.

"I want her under lock and key," Reese states at last, eyes forcibly remaining on the road. Just then, Shaw's phone buzzes, and she pulls it from her pocket.

**(UNKNOWN):**  |-|Σ110 : /

Root takes a peek at the screen and her heart springs to her throat.  _Hello : Root_

And just like that, a small seed of hope is replanted in the depths of Root's darkest place.

**_____\ We'll Find You /______**

She kept a calm expression as her heart bucked in her chest like a frightened horse. Her throat closed and her black fingernails curled painfully into the heels of her hands as she took a seat behind a large, mahogany desk.

_Stay calm. Stay. Calm._

The deadly rattle of a metal gate slammed to a halt before her, food tray shoved quickly into her small space by Harold before the cage was quickly locked again.

_The cage._

With only a small, grimy window above her and books tumbling in on three walls, her only escape from the suffocating imprisonment was just beyond an impenetrable cage. Heavy duty lock and all.

It's only the eighth day of her time with Finch's small team, and yet she already feels her sanity slipping. The anxiety eats at her hungrily like rats on wires, hair lengths away from short circuiting her completely. The nights were worse. You'd think they'd be better—  _with the darkness making the walls impossible to see and so, maybe, not really there at all_ — but it only brought her back to the darkness of the closet. The building was dark and abandoned, with the entire team gone home for the night, and she could scream with no one hearing her. She could yell until her throat went raw and slam her hands against the metal barricade until her palms bled, and no one could hear her. No one could help her. Not even the Machine.

She would pace. Exactly six steps left, exactly six steps right. Her fingertips would brush against the desk and her feet would push chaotic piles of books to the side and her hair would hit against the shelves with each sharp turn. She was boxed in. She was caged.

She had almost been free.

She would pace and shake and yell and pace and shake until the early dawn light flittered through her sliver of a window, and suddenly her bones would soften and her muscles would tire. Eyelids drooping and soul sagging, she would curl under the desk with a pillow and blanket, sleeping the two or three hours before a heavy latch being turned would echo through the entire library. Paws and sharp nails skittering across marble. Harold’s uneven gait softened by expensive leather shoes. That's how she knew Harold hadn't left her there for good.

Tonight as she paces, fingers digging deep into her scalp and tearing at the unruly knots in her hair, a low, metallic groan echoes down the hall. She'd been hearing these late night noises, yet no one was ever there.  _Not like the apartment._

In the apartment, chairs would scrape, voices would evanesce in the air just outside the closet door. Always a different voice, deep with thick drawls, talking to her mother. She always tried to yell out, maybe one of them would help, but by the time they arrived her voice had already been spent. She used to tell herself she would keep quiet until she heard them, but she could never keep the composure. Instead, she sat less than three feet from anyone who could set her free. For doing nothing wrong.

_But maybe... she was right_ , Root thinks, the thought fracturing her last ounce of sanity. Hands ripping free from her tangles of hair, she slams them against the desk, wiping clear every book. They drop to the floor sharply, the cacophonous crack of their spines against the marble sending needles through her skull. A dull thud rests there, and she can hear it, almost like footsteps approaching.

_Look what I've become. A monster. A killer for hire, no regard for who or why._ Her nails dig into the wood, breathing fast and labored, flashes of her mother's eyes and that cage before her.  _I've never been able to do things right. Not then, and certainly not now. I've always belonged in a cage._

"Rough night?"

Root whips around at the voice, eyes wild and teeth barred like a territorial guard dog protecting the last shred of hope she has left. Her eyes focus on Shaw. Her hair is pulled back immaculately, arms folded across her chest, and Root half-expects her to crack a grin. Revel with joy at the sight of Root so broken. So caged.

Shaw's face remains neutral.

Clasping her hands behind her back to keep Shaw from seeing the tremble in her fingers, Root flicks her hair behind one shoulder, mustering her best  _'nothing-bothers-me'_  grin.

"I've had better," Root coos in return, thankful for her relatively even tone.

"You look like crap."

Root, in spite of herself— or maybe because of the hysteria encroaching— lets out a humored chuckle.

"If I'd known you were coming I could've cleaned up a little. Put on some makeup or something." Shaw's lip flickers with the ghost of a smirk, and she takes a step closer to the cage. Root's eyes travel over her as she contemplates moving closer herself. "What are you doing here, anyway?" Root continues, smirking deviously as she takes the cautious step forward. If Shaw sees her getting closer, who's not to say she won't leave? "Miss me that much?"

Shaw scoffs. "Please," she hisses, turning her head from Root and scanning her small cell. Her brow creases ever so slightly. "Ever learn how to clean up?"

"Kinda hard when you don't have cleaning supplies."

"You don't need a mop to pick up some books."

Root's lips curl with a smile she can't quite conceal as she turns away from Shaw, bending over and collecting the novels she'd thrown to the ground. For some reason, having Shaw here is quelling the insatiable beast of nerves that roars within her each night. Turning her head back in Shaw's direction, she sees Shaw watching her.

"In case you get tired of the view," Root goads with a wink, "I could use a hand." Shaw rolls her eyes, dropping her arms to rest on her hips. Turning away from Root, Shaw walks out of sight.

Root's heart leaps to her throat, jumping up quickly and scurrying the four minuscule steps to the gate. Her fingers curl around the diamond grates, contents of her stomach quickly rising. She wants to apologize. Take back anything and everything she said. Whatever it takes to remove the guilt before she's stuck in the cage any longer.  _I always do this_ , she scolds herself, heat beginning to well behind her eyes as she closes them tight.  _I always say the wrong things. That's why I'm in here, that's why I was always in—_

The lock clicks. Root's eyes burst open. Shaw yanks the padlock from the metal latch, sliding it over and holding onto the grates. Her eyes rest expectantly on Root, who— after a moment of shock— backs away from them. Shaw pushes it open, the rusted creak of the wheels riding along their tracks nearly deafening as she folds the layers of metal back. Root's chest expands as she inhales all of the air that was on the other side of the gate. Her eyes swim, the outlines of the metal still seared into her retinas, though she knows she's no longer caged in.

She's free.

"Try to run and I'll shoot you," Shaw warns, stepping into the small room and dropping her hands to the floor. "I was being nice by shooting you in the shoulder before."

Finding her composure, Root blinks hard a few times, then begins re-stacking the books.

"With you here," Root smiles, meeting Shaw's icy eyes with fondness, "there's nowhere I'd rather be."

Root watches as the ice in Shaw's eyes melts, though not in a sweet way. Instead, flames leap from her pupils, lips pressing together firmly. And maybe, though it could be Root's imagination, she thinks Shaw's cheeks might just be flushed in the darkness.

"Do you flirt to be annoying or is this just the way you talk to everyone?" Shaw asks as they pile the last of the books on the table. Root, tilting her head and wearing sly eyes, bites her bottom lip with a smile.

"What can I say? You're just one of a kind, Sameen." Butterflies roll off her chest at the words, wondering what she'll say to being called Sameen. From what she can tell, both of her associates refer to her only on a last name basis.

"Can I get that on a plaque?" Shaw cracks, shaking her head in annoyance as she turns away, headed back outside of Root's cramped room. Root's heart sinks, waiting to hear the wheels squeaking once more.

They don't.

"You staying in that two by four all night or what?" Shaw deadpans, and Root turns to her with surprise.

"I thought the point of taking prisoners was to keep them locked up," Root responds, taking a step forward and scrunching her nose. "Considering how scary we can be." Shaw's countenance reveals nothing, though Root can almost believe she sees a flash of humor pass over Shaw's onyx eyes. A smirk tugs at the corner of her lips.

"I think I'll take my chances.”

**_____\ Person of Interest /_____**

"So, do you tend to trust killers for hire often?" Root asks, slouching back in Finch's chair and kicking her feet up on his desk. Her arms are stretched along his armrests, one holding a granola bar, the other a diet coke.

Shaw, seated on an overstuffed sofa along the wall, chuckles, the sound muddied by a large sandwich.

"I don't trust anyone."

"But you let me out?" Root persists, met only by chewing.

"You're just one of a kind, I guess."

Root smiles at the word play, knowing every last syllable is sarcasm but being unable to help her heart's fluttering nonetheless. How long had it been since someone indulged her with a real conversation? Since someone listened to the things she said?

_Hanna, it hadn't been since Hanna._

Polishing off her soda, Root stretches and stands, taking long, relaxed strides across the room to the farthest waste bin.  _It feels so good to stretch out like this._

"What made you decide to, you know, enter your line of business?" Shaw asks, and Root's brow curves with surprise. Light banter was one thing, but actual interest in the enemy seemed like something different entirely.

"Mom told me to follow my talents," Root replies with a shrug, a chill running through her bones as she remembers the words. "Guess I've always been good at computers and bad decisions." Shaw grunts, kicking her feet up onto the couch and laying her head along the armrest. "What about you?" Root asks, skin crawling at the memories that begin to leak back in. She closes her eyes, pushing all the bad thoughts away. "How'd you wind up here?"

"CIA had me killed," Shaw answers, "but I didn't take too well to that."

"Didn't take well to  _death_?" Root echoes, amused, and Shaw looks at her with a microscopic grin.

"Nothing kills this cat."

Root raises her brows, meandering ever so slowly towards Shaw's couch. "And what about that past lead you here tonight?" Shaw sits up a little at that, face immediately shutting back down with a firewall even Root can't breach.

"Wondered what you do at night."

"That's some x-rated thinking, wouldn't you say?" Root shoots back slyly, coming to a seat at the armrest where Shaw's boots reside. Her eyes are dark with devilish humor as she tosses her curls of hair over her shoulder. "But, if you  _really_  wanna know—"

"You're nails are all chipped," Shaw interjects, cheeks visibly warm and eyes narrowed angrily. "You've got bruises under your eyes and cuts along your knuckles. I thought you were trying to dig your way out."

"This isn't Alcatraz," Root replies amiably, lifting one of Shaw's legs and placing her shoe across her lap. Shaw immediately retracts it with a flicker of annoyance. "Besides, I don't think they dug their way out using their hands."

"That's what I was coming to tell you."

Root gives her a look. Rolling her eyes, Shaw continues.

"Thought you might've hit a mental breaking point. And by the way I caught you off guard in there, I'd say I was right."

Root shakes her head, eyes struggling to find any distraction against Shaw's unrelenting gaze. "I'm fine in there."

"I don't think so."

"Well, what do you  _suppose_  I do?" Root remarks, the flirtation in her voice replaced by annoyance. "Ask Harry for a leash so he can walk me around during the day?"  _Walked around like a dog._

"I'll see what I can do," Shaw answers, still cool, Root's tone not phasing her in the slightest. "Even jails have rec time." Root's eyes soften as she leans back against the couch, gaze stuck with confusion on Shaw's.

"Why?"

"Why what."

"Why try to help me?"

Shaw shrugs, rolling her shoulders as she presses herself into the couch, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. When they open once more, something is different about them, something Root can't quite place.

"You've got issues," Shaw says bluntly, and Root gives a slight nod, not denying it, "but issues doesn't make you not human. Or a bad person."

"I've killed a lot of people," Root points out. Shaw snorts.

"Join the club."

A silence settles between them, Root lost in thought. Thinking about everything her mother's said and everything she's believed about herself for far too long.  _Maybe... maybe I shouldn’t believe it..._

"Harold thinks I'm a monster," Root starts slowly, wondering if Shaw will change on her— show her true cards. "I thought you and the big lug listened to everything he said?"

"Harold has a real black and white view of the world."

"And you don't?"

Shaw's eyelids drift once more, the breaking of early morning getting the better of her.

"I have more of a... moral gray mentality."

"Ambiguous," Root coos, unable to hold back a large, toothy grin. Her fingers begin to tremble once more, but it has nothing to do with previous anxieties. "You know, that's kinda sexy—"

"I will throw you back into that room in a  _heartbeat_ ," Shaw snaps with fluster, though Root can tell she doesn't mean it. Still, she's unable to drop the grin. "Finch is thinking of enrolling you into some institution. Thinks it'll do you good."

"I don't do well in tight spaces," Root responds, mind rolling around the possibility of a change of scenery.  _It has to be better than here_ , she thinks, but with a quick glance Shaw's way, she's unsure.

"Noticed," Shaw remarks tactlessly. "But it's not my call. And hey, if you got issues, that's probably the best place to deal with them anyway." Root bites her bottom lip in thought. She waits awhile, listening to Shaw's breath as it steadies, coming in and out rhythmically.

"How long?" Root dares to ask. Shaw gives a half-hearted shrug.

"Not my call," she mutters again, fading away. Root stays a minute more, then two and three, watching as dawn creeps up from the forest of skyscrapers through the large, dusty window on the far wall. She peers back to Shaw, eyes soft as she looks her over, taking in the sound sleep that's washed over her.

_I could run_ , Root thinks, heart jolting with the idea. After a moment more, she sighs, standing and tip-toeing out of the room. Still, Shaw's breathing is steady with sleep, making this the perfect getaway. She thinks of the night's conversation— devoid of cramped quarters and surprisingly honest— and she thinks of the message Shaw received on the car ride that brought her here.  _I could be long gone before the sun even tops the corner market._

Heading down the hall, Root rounds the corner and side-steps into her small room. Slender fingers curling around the first bar, she tugs, letting it slide back into place. The tightness still presses in on all sides, but somehow, the idea of being in a cage is a little less daunting. Slipping her fingers through the grates, she pushes the latch back in place, then secures the padlock. She feels stronger than before, like a storm is passing, taking pieces of her past life with it.

Shuffling back to her bundle of blankets and flat pillow under the desk, Root drops with exhaustion, feeling the first guilt-free sleep she's had in over a decade encroaching.

"Smart choice," Shaw calls from the other room, yet Root can barely muster surprise past the fatigue quickly claiming her. "I didn't really feel like putting another bullet in your shoulder."

"I thought you said next time it wouldn't be my shoulder?" Root shoots back, soft smile curling at her lips, remaining there as she drifts off before catching Shaw's reply.

**Author's Note:**

> Just as aforementioned, if there’s anything I need to tag/do to help with the warning on this, please reach out to me and let me know! I personally would like to think that Root’s mom was a good person in the actual, canon show, but with that being said, we don’t really know too much about Root’s home life, and it’s not my place to speculate. Usually though, in other AUs that involve Root’s mom, I tend to make her a sweet lady, which is the type of person I really hope she was to Root.
> 
> Circling back to the warnings though, one of them is self-blaming. I do want to make the point that I am not in support of self-blaming, and I hope that anyone out there who is struggling with abuse knows that it is not your fault. I’ll always be in your corner if you need to talk; however, with that being said, when it comes to abuse of any kind, seeking professional help will always be a better option than talking to someone like me who isn’t trained or anything like a professional is. I do want you to know that you have my support, and I hope that you are alright.
> 
> Lastly, I’m unsure when my next update will be. I’m not sure what should be next, more serious, maybe something AU/not AU, or perhaps some good old fashioned fluff. Let me know if you’ve got a preference.


End file.
